Divine Intervention
by Goody
Summary: When the Russian mob starts to take over the Boston underworld there are two ways to handle the situation; the way of the gun, or the way of the con. Or, a little bit of both. One-shot


**Title**: Divine Intervention (Leverage/Boondock Saints crossover)  
**Rating**: R (the McManus brothers like to curse just a wee bit)  
**Author's notes**: So, Leverage is now set in Boston. You know what else is set in Boston? Boondock Saints! The rest wrote itself. Enjoy!  
**Summary**: When the Russian mob starts to take over the Boston underworld there are two ways to handle the situation; the way of the gun, or the way of the con. Or, a little bit of both. (One-shot)

* * *

It had started with a simple question from Nate.

"Eliot, how's your Russian?"

Now it seemed as though what started simply was going to end in a hail of bullets, and that included the one that had just grazed Eliot's shoulder. Ignoring the pain for now he pulled out his boot knife, stayed low and waited for the bullets to stop flying as he mentally wished he had never learned a word of Russian. Then again, it wasn't like the team had had much of a choice on this one.

It was one of the few times where they had decided to work a job without a client, but it was to solve a problem that the whole city knew about: the Russian mob.

Over the past few months the city of Boston had entered into somewhat of a power vacuum in regards to the mafia world. The Leverage team had taken down the financial backing and brains of the Irish mob, so the entire organization was floundering considerably. It would have seemed like a great time for the Italians to make a move to the forefront only they had a terrible habit of all getting killed in the last few weeks. Which left the Russians, who were making a move for power, and they weren't coming quietly.

Businesses that didn't pay protection fees were being robbed, burnt to the ground, or their owners beaten or even killed. The drug racket was expanding everywhere in town. Dirty cops were getting dirtier and clean cops weren't getting support.

Basically most of the city was a mess which is what prompted the team to have a meeting.

They were all gathered in Nate's living room and knew exactly what he was referring to when he told them, "We've gotta find a way to put a stop to this, or at least slow things down. Innocent people are getting hurt and we started it all when we crippled the Irish mob."

"What are we going to do?" Sophie asked. "The Russians are building a huge operation. We would need the police to stop them and we aren't going to get much support on that front. They've got half the force in their pocket."

"There are other ways," Nate pointed out.

"Such as?" Hardison asked.

"Infiltration. We take them down from the inside," Nate explained. Most of the team instinctively looked at Sophie, their wolf in designer clothing who could con her way into any organization, but Nate looked to their hitter instead. "Eliot, how's your Russian?"

Eliot seemed confused for a moment but then nodded and answered, "Fluent."

"Good."

"Wait," Parker lifted her hand to interrupt. "But Sophie's the one …"

"Not this time," Nate said unapologetically. "Women play no part in the Russian mob, they have no power, no influence. We wouldn't get anywhere that way. And it's too dangerous."

Nate had added on the last point like it was an after-thought when in truth he was plotting ways to keep both Sophie and Parker as uninvolved in this job as possible. The Russians were simply too unpredictable.

"You okay with this?" Nate asked Eliot seriously. They were going to be throwing the hitter into the belly of the beast and Nate didn't want to force him into anything he couldn't handle or thought was too risky.

"Yeah," Eliot replied unhesitantly. "It could work, and we gotta try."

"Okay, Hardison set him up with an identity, Russian obviously with a rap sheet. Some misdemeanor charges from other cities, maybe an assault or two. We can't make you seem like a big-time player or they'll wonder why they haven't heard of you," Nate instructed and Hardison was already typing.

Sophie had heard Eliot speak Russian briefly once in Serbia and offered, "I'll help you with your accent."

"There's nothing wrong with my accent," Eliot said defensively.

"Oh sweetie," Sophie patted Eliot's hand and shook her head condescendingly while Parker pointed out:

"You know you're supposed to be from the country Georgia, not the state."

Quickly getting frustrated, Eliot stood up to leave, "Hardison, get me an alias. I'm gonna go find out where these guys meet."

The next day Eliot had walked into the backroom of "The Sly Krimlov" with an ID that said Pavel Maximov, asking the mob members he found there if they needed any heads bashed in. The boss had responded by telling two huge bruisers to give him a 'test run'; one man cracked his knuckles while the other picked up a pool cue as they circled the hitter. Several broken bones later Eliot had earned his spot on the team, though he still hadn't heard if one of the guys would ever be able to eat solid food again. Admittedly, it wasn't exactly weighing on his conscience though.

Now it was five days later and he was back at The Sly Krimlov, tossing a bag full of cash on the table in front of his 'boss'. Eliot had been ordered to go out and collect protection money from a few local businesses by any means necessary. Instead he had gone to Nate's, watched the game and then stuffed some cash they had lying around into a bag, but of course Dmitri was none the wiser. Money was money.

"_Any trouble_?" Dmitri asked as he gleefully added the bills to the stacks he already had.

Eliot made a point of clenching his fist like he'd used it lately, "_Not for me_."

"_Good boy_."

Eliot went to the counter to grab a beer to help restrain the urge to throw Dmitri into the wall for calling him 'boy'.

"My Russian's pretty basic but did he just call you 'boy'?"

Hardison's voice in his ear was not helping things either. Thankfully Nate sensed this as well.

"Hardison, cut the chatter or you'll blow his cover. And if anything goes wrong it means you're getting sent in next."

The threat must have been sobering indeed as Hardison spoke up a few seconds later, "Sorry man. You do your thing."

Eliot's 'thing' currently consisted of counting to ten in his head very slowly when he realized that this supposed 'bar' didn't have any beer and seemed to be completely stocked with vodka. Seriously, these guys couldn't be any more clichéd if they tried. Hell, for all he knew maybe they _were_ trying. He supposed he could try to find out tonight since he had to spend the evening with the five mobsters to maintain his character.

"There's gotta be a beer around here somewhere," he mentally grumbled. He started to bend down to check the fridge beneath the bar and that's when all hell broke loose for exactly thirty seconds. He felt the burning in his right arm where the bullet grazed him before he ever heard a gunshot.

"Ah!" he yelled involuntarily and dropped behind the bar for cover, cradling his bleeding shoulder. As he dropped he briefly saw the rest of the room and its occupants being torn apart by bullets. The gunshots were muzzled but he was fairly certain he heard at least four guns being fired, all of them sounding like 92 Berettas. He just wished he knew who was firing and where the hell the shots were coming from.

"Eliot! Eliot what's happening?! Talk to me!"

Apparently so did Nate.

On the other side of the bar Eliot could hear quick shouts of pain from the mobsters, immediately followed by bodies hitting the floor. There were no screams of agony, no gasping last breaths – whoever was shooting at them was shooting to kill and hitting the mark every time. Eliot growled, pulled out his bootknife and stayed crouched and ready to attack, feeling no compulsion to run out and risk his life for the lowlifes getting shot behind him.

The bullets ended abruptly and Eliot found himself holding his breath as silence fell and was broken a few seconds later by the voices of two men.

"The Russians man, they always kind of just stand there and take it," the first voice commented, sounding mildly excited and clearly Irish.

"It is an embarrassin' trait to be known for, I must admit," the second man agreed in the same accent. Eliot heard both men walking around the room, most likely inspecting the bodies, accompanied by a jingling sound like car keys or coins being shaken.

"Jesus, I could use a beer," the more excited voice announced and Eliot tensed as he heard at least one of the men coming around the bar he was hiding behind. These guys were clearly professionals so the hitter didn't waste any time talking. As soon as he saw a gloved hand come into view he was moving, grabbing the man's wrist, twisting his arm behind his back and bringing the knife up under his chin in one smooth motion.

"Ah! Jesus Christ!" his captive swore, tilting his head back and being smart enough not to struggle as he felt the blade touch his skin. Pennies fell from his fingers and scattered across the floor as he tugged uselessly on Eliot's arm in an attempt to pull the knife away.

"Murph!" the second man yelled with terrified concern as he threw his own pennies away and pulled his gun back out. The motion gave Eliot just enough time to angle himself and his hostage to face the second gunman head-on and use the first as a shield. "Let him go you son of a bitch!"

"Put it down or I'll cut his throat," Eliot warned. "And don't even think about taking a shot. No matter where you hit me this knife'll go in before I go down."

His hostage, Murph, seemed more angry than scared though and demanded of his partner, "Fuck that Connor. Shoot this motherfucker!"

"Shut up Murph! We wouldn't be in this mess if you counted the god damn bodies!" Connor pointed out, gun still up but clearly not intending to shoot just yet.

"Fuck you! When did it become my job to count the bodies?" Murph asked petulantly.

"Since you decided to run into the room first and do a fucking victory dance, that's when!" Connor replied angrily. Normally Eliot would have thought the bickering was a charade to distract him, but something about the two made him think they were seriously fighting at the moment.

"Whatever. Just shoot this guy already, I think he broke my fucking wrist," Murph complained as though it was more of an inconvenience than a life threatening situation.

"All right both of you shut the hell up!" Eliot demanded loudly, pulling the knife a little tighter to make his point. When both men quieted and he actually had a moment of silence to think clearly he realized why the men seemed so familiar and sighed in annoyance. "Jesus Christ, you're the Saints."

As Eliot spoke he released his hostage and pushed him away, not in defeat but in a gesture indicating he felt the threat to himself had passed.

Murph hissed in pain and laughed at the same time as he shook his arm and said to his brother, "That was the stupidest thing you could have done friend. Connor, if you wouldn't mind shooting the bastard now."

Connor hadn't put his gun down but looked thoughtful as he considered Eliot's actions.

"You're not with the Russians."

"Do I sound like I'm fucking Russian? Is this how you idiots always do these things? Shoot up a room full of people, don't care who's innocent or guilty?" Eliot asked with angry accusation as he glared coldly at them both.

"Evil men, dead men, that's how it works," Connor explained without hesitation or regret.

"What are you talking to this guy now? Did I mention my fucking arm? Just shoot him already," Murph requested and turned around to pick up his own gun when Connor didn't comply.

"Just shut the fuck up Murph, something ain't right about this," Connor told him.

"You got that right," Eliot said angrily as he pulled out his earpiece and threw it down on the counter top. "It ever occur to you idiots that not everyone in this room deserved to die?"

The eyes of both men widened and they dropped their weapons as they realized what the earpiece likely meant.

"You're a cop?" Connor asked fearfully.

Eliot decided to skirt around the truth and replied, "That ain't a hearing aid."

"Shit," Murph swore under his breath and then motioned to the bodies on the floor. "Were any of these guys …?"

"No. Lucky for you guys I was working alone," Eliot commented.

"Nobody told us," Connor said angrily to Eliot's surprise.

"What do you mean 'nobody'? You got cops working with you on this gong-show of yours?" Eliot questioned.

"That's none of your business," Murphy said defensively, not about to give up names even if they had almost killed this guy.

Meanwhile, Connor picked up Eliot's earpiece curiously and commented with awe, "Jesus, it's tiny."

"Wow," Murph agreed. "You'd think it would fall out. We should get some of these."

"Murph, the last thing I need is your voice perpetually in my ear," Connor told him.

"Of course, if Charlie Bronson didn't use them then obviously we can't."

Eliot however did not appreciate their light-hearted take on the situation.

"You know for guys who are supposedly on a mission from God or whatever the hell you say you don't seem too concerned that you almost killed me!" he lectured them to which Connor shrugged and Murphy continued to inspect the earpiece and whisper into it.

"That's the thing my friend, God works in mysterious ways. He puts evil men in our path and we destroy them. He put these men in our path and we did just that. He also put you in our path and you're now the only man to ever survive one of our little outings and I find it hard to believe that's a coincidence," Connor told him.

"God decided that all you deserved was that graze across the arm, and that's all you'll get from us," Murphy added solemnly.

Eliot looked between them both for a few seconds trying to decide if they were crazy or if he was for briefly agreeing with their logic. The moment was broken when they all heard footsteps rushing towards them. Seconds later the door burst open and Nate rushed into the room, gun drawn as he yelled, "Eliot!"

The Saints had their guns pulled in a second which only gave Eliot the briefest moment to shout, "No!"

Moving in between the three gunmen he yelled again, "Nobody shoots! Nate, put it down. It's all right, they're … on our side."

As Nate lowered his gun hesitantly Murphy smirked behind him, "Couldn't bring yourself to call us the good guys?"

"Not when you kill like it's nothing, even if they might deserve it," Eliot answered, his voice hard as stone. Murphy had the decency to back off on the cockiness as he detected the tight control Eliot seemed to have over his own violence at the moment. After all, Murphy's arm still throbbed from the brief taste he had gotten of the other man's dark side earlier.

Nate clearly had a lot of questions but as he put his gun away his main concern was the blood dripping down Eliot's arm.

"You're shot."

"It's nothing. Apparently God just wanted me grazed," he answered with more sarcasm than respect.

"Now you're getting' it," Murphy smirked.

"Sorry about that," Connor told him honestly as he hit his brother in the arm to shut him up.

"Sure," Eliot huffed and moved over to the table where Dmitri had been stacking his money. It didn't escape either Irishman's notice that he didn't apologize for what he did to Murph's arm. Eliot swept the money into a bag and handed it to Nate.

"Souvenir?" Murphy asked with suspicion. Maybe this guy wasn't as clean a cop as they were giving him credit for.

"This money belongs to the people in the neighborhood it was stolen from. You have a problem with us giving it back?" Nate asked rhetorically.

"No," Connor said before Murphy could answer. "Make sure it gets to its rightful owners."

"Yeah, and you guys make sure you know who the hell you're shooting at next time," Eliot scolded them angrily as he pressed his injured arm close to his body.

"You wanna just leave them here?" Nate whispered to Eliot, hesitant about letting the two murderers just walk away.

Eliot shrugged, "I don't like how they work but I'm not one to judge. We're basically on the same side. Besides, I don't think calling the cops would do much."

"All right," Nate agreed reluctantly but followed Eliot out of the bar, noting that the hitter never looked back to glance at their new 'acquaintances'.

When the two men were gone Murphy turned to his brother, "Who the hell was that guy? I don't think he was with them, but I don't think he was a cop either."

"Whoever he was, God wants him alive, that's good enough for me. That, or you just can't shoot for shit," Connor theorized with a laugh, for which Murph punched him in the arm.

"Fuck you, it was probably your bullet that missed him," he argued.

"It doesn't matter, just help me pick up these pennies," Connor instructed, eager to get on with their ritual and leave.

"Did you not hear me say that I think my wrist is broken?" Murph reminded him incredulously as he kept his arm as still as possible.

"Only about a dozen times, ya baby. That's what you get for running in first and letting your guard down. Now unless you're bleeding to death help me pick up these pennies so we can get the hell out of here," Connor requested again.

Murphy stopped complaining and begrudgingly started to place the pennies on the eyes of their victims. He still wanted to know who that man, Eliot, had been though and what he had been doing there if he wasn't a cop or a mobster. Murphy fingered the tiny earpiece that he had shoved in his pocket – maybe he could call him on it somehow and find out more.

It would have to wait until later though. For now they had a job to do.

"And shepherds we shall be,

For thee, my lord, for thee …"

The end.

Hope you enjoyed. I just saw Boondock Saints II and wanted the worlds to merge. Later! Robin.


End file.
